Stranded
by kashkow
Summary: An ONI mission goes wrong....big surprise. Can Seaview get there in time or will someone have to save himself? Still posting old stories. Hang in there.....


Stranded by kashkow1

Prolog-

Lee Crane dragged himself out of the water onto the bare rock. He almost screamed as his left leg cleared the water, and dragged on the ground. He could feel the broken bones grating in his lower leg. Damn but that hurt! He pulled himself the rest of the way out of the water, glad to be out, but now the cold night air was hitting his body, and he felt very cold.

He sat up, and in the white, cold light of the full moon looked around at his landfall. As far as he could see in either direction, rocky shoreline was edged by black forest. Not a hopeful sight. He was pretty sure he knew where he was, but knowing didn't make it any better.

He believed he was on Little Sitkin Island, one of the furthest west of the Aleutian chain of islands. The Aleutian Islands were a chain of small islands situated in the Northern Pacific Ocean, and extending about 1,200 miles westward from the extremity of the Alaskan peninsula toward the peninsula of Kamchatka in Russia. The eastern half of the archipelago is part of the state of Alaska. The western half is part of Russia. Both halves tended to be cold, and in the case of Little Sitkin, uninhabited, though those islands closer to Alaska were populated and had a lot of tourist traffic in the warmer months. Luckily for Crane this was one of the warmer months, being August, but warm at these latitudes was maxed out at 70 degrees or so, and that during the day. He found himself on land at around 0500 in the morning. It was not by any stretch of the imagination warm. He patted his left pocket. Luckily his "survival pack" had stayed with him. He had matches, a small piece of shiny metal/mirror and the obligatory fishhook and line. He hoped it would be enough to keep him alive until someone, anyone, found him.

He considered his situation again in the stark light. "Oh sure." he thought, "Tom Hanks gets tropical white sand, palm trees, and 'Wilson'. I get a cold, dark island with rocky shorelines, near the Arctic Circle, and a broken leg. I demand equal time."

He snorted to himself. That wasn't going to help. He needed to figure out how to get off this island and back to where he was supposed to be. When the ship he had been on docked without him, questions would be asked, but answers would be few. The only person who possibly could have seen him go overboard had been dead, and the ocean between where he had last checked in and the port of Sapporo, on the Japanese Island of Hokkaido, was very large, and the exact course the ship had taken would be largely unknown. The ship's company would not be in a cooperative mood after being over ran with ONI agents in full SWAT gear, along with Japanese security agents and any other government agencies that could field a few agents he was sure. It was going to be quite the circus. He had planned to slip off the ship when they stopped for the harbor pilot, but he had left a bit earlier out of necessity.

He sighed and carefully lifted his left leg and placed it on top of his right one. That should keep it from bumping around a bit. He knew it still wasn't going to be pleasant however. That proved to be true as he pulled himself into the lee side of a large rock, cutting out the biting wind that had been chilling him to the bone. He was lucky that the currents tended to be warm here this time of the year as warm tropical waters voyaged north in the huge Humboldt Current. Those same waters would chill out, and head south along the western edge of North America, on their way back to the equator. Otherwise he would have frozen to death in the water over the last three hours. Now he had to keep hypothermia at bay until the sun came up in a few hours.

He found his haven out of the wind to be filled with driftwood. He piled several smaller pieces together to form a base for a fire, and fished out his matches from the plastic bag. In a few moments he had a small fire going, and began feeding in some larger pieces. That felt a bit better. His clothes began to steam in the heat, and he leaned back against the rock, closing his eyes. He was so very tired. He hadn't slept well in almost a week, and hadn't slept at all in the last 36 hours. He could take care of everything else after sunrise. For now he just wanted to rest. He put several of the larger pieces of driftwood on the fire and allowed the warmth to lull him to sleep. As he sunk down into the blackness his mind returned him to the happenings of the past week.

Chapter 1- One week earlier.

Crane turned over in his bunk as the low tone of the intercom buzzed from his desk across the cabin. He got up, rubbing his face with one hand. He glanced at the chronometer as he padded barefoot towards his desk. 0200. He had gotten a whole hour of sleep. Sitting in his chair he picked up the phone.

"Crane," he said

"Skipper, Admiral Smith from ONI for you, top priority. It's a secure line," said Basser, Spark's relief on the night shift.

"Thank you. Put him through." Crane yawned as the radio operator transfer the call.

"Crane?" Smith said

"Yes, Sir."

"What is your current status?"

Crane had a sudden urge to tell him, "Horizontal in my jammies," but fought down the impulse. He stifled another yawn, and replied aloud, "We're on our way back to Santa Barbara, about 3 day out."

"Can you be gone for about a week?"

Crane reviewed the schedule in his mind. "Yes, Sir."

"Can you be in Portland by 0600?"

"Maine or Oregon?"

"Oregon. You'll be coming in the FS1?" Smith asked, speaking of the small flying submarine Crane referred to as his 'baby'.

"Yes, Sir."

"Good, land at Connaght Bay Naval Station. You'll be met. Smith out."

"Crane out."

He hung up the phone and considered what he needed to do. He also considered crawling back into his bunk. It would be a lot easier. He thought back to the conversation he had had with Admiral Nelson, the owner and designer of the _Seaview_, just a few hours ago. They had been discussing schedules for the next few months. Nelson had made a comment about how ONI had not been making any demands on Crane's time recently. He had seemed so pleased about that, and Morton, who had been sitting in on the discussion, had heartily agreed. They really hated him doing ONI missions. He knew they understood why he felt he had to do what ONI asked, but that didn't mean they had to like it, or not let that dislike show.

They had ended the meeting on an up note, and now this. They would not be happy. He was not really looking forward to waking up Chip to let him know he was leaving, either. Waking Chip to begin with was like disturbing a hibernating bear, with this news it would be a bear with a toothache. Of course, there was nothing to say that he _had_ to wake Chip. An evil grin spread across his face. He was after all the Captain, and he could just leave a message. Nelson he wouldn't have disturbed anyway. It wasn't like Morton was going to talk him out of it, so why even bother the man. If a problem arose with the _Seaview_, the duty officer would know to call Morton.

Crane took some notepaper from his drawer and wrote a quick note to Morton, and then a slightly longer one to Nelson. He would slip them under the doors as he left. He called down to the control room and had them begin getting the FS1 ready. He had them turf Kowalski out of his bunk to copilot and to bring the little vessel back after dropping him off. All that satisfied, he got dressed in jeans and a dark pullover shirt, and packing lightly, headed down to the control room. He dropped off the notes on the way.

In the Control room an anxious Sharkey hovered around the hatch of the FS1. As Crane came down the spiral stairs with his bag, he hustled over and took it out of his hand.

"You're up late Chief. Couldn't sleep?" Crane said jokingly, knowing that the Chief had gone to his quarters earlier, and had reappeared now because he, the Captain, was leaving the boat, and word had been passed to the Chief.

Sharkey grinned briefly and then returned to his worried look. "Why don't I go along with you, Skipper? I'm sure that there is something I could do."

"Not this time Chief."

"Well then, shouldn't we wake up Mr. Morton and let him know you're goin? I mean he's the XO and all and…"

"No. I left him a message, the Admiral too. Let them sleep. They'll find out soon enough."

"Begging your pardon but they ain't going to be happy, Sir. With you going on a… well with you going and not letting them know. And well, you ain't going to be here in the morning."

Crane lowered his head to hide his smile. He schooled his features to mildly interested, and patted Sharkey's shoulder. "I'm sure you'll handle it just fine Chief."

"Me Sir? Handle it?"

"That's right Chief. I want you to go to Mr. Morton's cabin in the morning around say 0600. I'm sure that he will have lots of questions that you will be well qualified to answer since you are here to see me off."

"But Skipper..." the Chief said desperately. No one wanted to be on Morton's bad side early in the morning before he got his first cup of coffee. And tomorrow it would be a very bad side.

"I would suggest you bring coffee, a lot of it." Crane said, once again patting the stout shoulder. He rapidly turned toward the flying sub hatch to hide the wicked smile that was trying to push its way through his stone face. O'Brien, on Conn duty that morning, was standing by the hatch, his eyes twinkling with amusement.

"That was nasty, Sir."

"Put it down to too little sleep. After I go, let him know I told you he didn't have to go. I don't wish Chip on anyone in the mornings."

"Uh, not to beat a dead horse, Sir... but don't you think it would be a good idea to let Mr. Morton or the Admiral know you are going?"

"You scared too?"

"_Yes_!"

The two men shared a laugh. Then Crane sobered and leaned close to O'Brien. "I really think this is the best way. I know they don't like me to take ONI missions, and it would only lead to arguments if I woke them. I would really rather not start out on a mission in that mindset."

O'Brien nodded. "I understand, Sir. Good luck."

"Thanks. Take care of my boat." That said, he climbed down the ladder into the flying sub, and strapped himself into the pilot's seat. Kowalski was already strapped into the co-pilot seat.

"Where we off to, Skipper?" he asked.

"Connaght Naval Base in Oregon. You'll drop me off and return to the _Seaview_."

"I can wait for you, Sir."

"I don't think that would work Ski. There's a good chance you'll be home in Santa Barbara by the time I am done. I'll just catch up there."

Kowalski, seeing there was no arguing with his commanding officer nodded, and began working through the preflight checklist with Crane. In a matter of minutes they were dropping from the bay beneath _Seaview_, and were off toward Oregon.

Dawn had found Crane at the Naval base, being led into a small office where Smith sat with two other men. After the door closed behind his guide, Smith had waved him to the remaining empty chair. "Commander Lee Crane, this is minister Tojiro Nakahada of the Japanese Security forces, and Boyd Ibsen of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms. Gentlemen, Commander Crane is one of my top agents. He will be able to help us out."

With that statement had begun the adventure that had landed Lee Crane alone on a small island in the North Pacific.

Chapter 2-Portland Seaport

Two days later Crane had found himself walking up the gangplank of a Venezuelan fishing ship, the _Oronoco_, carrying a bagful of unfamiliar clothes, and with a dark tan that made him look like the Mexican seaman he was supposed to be. He greeted the person on watch at the top of the gangplank in the perfect idiomatic Spanish that he had learned ages ago from a very nice man who had come from a small village in northern Mexico. Crane had made it a point to travel to the small village on a vacation so that if anyone should ask questions about it he could answer as truthfully as possible. It was always best when being someone else to stay as close to the truth as possible, less chance of making a fatal mistake that way. He had let his curly hair, normally tamed down with hair products, air dry, and he had let his beard grow over the last several days so his cheeks were stubbled. He didn't look like the well-groomed submarine Captain he had come to Portland as.

He was shown to a cabin that he would share with three other men, and then shown his duties as a seaman. He would be a regular deck hand, and fill in as steward to the passengers that were not to be spoken of. Later that day he had taken a tray to the ornate passenger cabin located on the top deck. Nothing about the outside of the ship would have suggested the opulent surrounding he found himself in when he entered at the call. He really didn't have to fake the wide-eyed, amazed look he shot around the cabin.

Thick pile carpeting, antique furniture, rich gold threaded fabrics, everything a hedonistic, sick, arms-dealing bloodsucker like Miguel Chandron could possibly want. As were the very scantily clad women draped on the expensive sofas. Crane had no eyes for them, though he pretended to look at them as he evaluated the room. He also was looking at Chandron, a slim man of medium height with dark coloring, and black soulless eyes. _This_ man was responsible for selling arms to some of the worst enemies of freedom. Wherever there was a dirty buck to be made selling arms there was Chandron. Also in the room, propped in a leather armchair, was one of the biggest men Crane had ever seen. He had to be at least 6 feet 6 inches tall, and over 300 pounds. His face, a study in the effects of acne scarring, was flat and ugly. Small, dark eyes studied Crane as he entered, and a light that made Lee shudder inside came into them. He tried to ignore the huge figure as he put the tray down on the cocktail table. He quickly unloaded the plates of hors d'oeuvres and salsas. He started once as one of the women, her pupils mere pinpoints, from drugs Crane was sure, reached out and ran a hand over his rear, murmuring appreciatively at the firm roundness she found. He tried to keep the blush from climbing his cheeks, but didn't succeed. Harsh laughter followed him out of the room, where he stopped, and smiled a little. That performance should cement him in their minds as a country bumpkin with no hint of 'sophistication'; hopefully they would speak freely in front of him, and he could learn what he had come here to find out. He returned to the galley, to get his evening meal, a bowl of nearly inedible stew far different from the food he had brought to the cabin.

They were well out from port now, moving quickly North and east. The stated course was to the fishing grounds in the Bay of Alaska and the Bering Sea. ONI and a few other agencies suspected there was another destination, and a meeting with Abdul Ben Hasad, a terrorist of the worst kind. Hasad had no problem killing innocent people to promote his cause. The fact that his 'cause' seemed to change to fit his own whims and to pad his own wallet didn't seem to bother him at all. He killed because he liked to, and he was very good at it. ONI aimed to put him out of business, and take out Chandron at the same time. They had both proven to be very elusive, and only after nearly a year of undercover work had they come to this opportunity. Then at the last moment the whole operation had almost fallen apart when the undercover agent got appendicitis. Some last minute scrambling had provided the opportunity to put in another agent, but it had to be someone who could fit into the crew and was available at a moments notice. Lee Crane fit the bill.

Late that same night Crane had snuck into the radio room to use the equipment to alert ONI that he was on board and ok so far. He had retreated unseen to his bunk, and lay awake a good portion of the night making plans. Over the course of the next several days he had done his job, establishing himself as a shy, quiet, loner who would rather spend time alone on the fantail, leaning against a ventilation funnel and staring out to sea. What no one seemed to know was that the funnel fed air into the opulent quarters below, and allowed sounds to come out. Crane had found that sitting there in the sun, watching the sea, he could hear almost everything that was said in the room. Chandron and his right hand man, Ortiz, the giant, spoke of several business deals while Crane listened. He made note of all the names, sending them out nightly in coded messages from the radio room. But no mention of their final destination was made. They were still sailing north and East; only going about half speed, so Crane suspected they had a precise schedule they were operating under.

He was tired, and wasn't sure how much longer he could stand to go without sleep. He just could not get comfortable enough to sleep for any amount of time. He heard his name called, or at least the name of Juan Cordilla, his name here, and found himself once again on the way to the passenger cabin with snack foods. This time it was just Chandron and the women, and once again he was fondled by one of the obviously high women. He beat a hasty retreat. He started to head back to the fantail, when he found his way blocked by a huge figure. In a matter of seconds he found himself slammed against the wall, feet almost an inch off the deck, held in place by a massive arm across his chest. Stinking breath made him turn his head as the scarred, ugly face filled his vision. Ortiz!

A massive hand reached out and turned his face forward, and he found himself eye to eye with the man. He had to mentally order himself not to react. Not to use some of the advanced self defense moves he knew that even this hulk couldn't defend against. He felt Ortiz's free hand leave his jaw and trail down his throat and chest, heading down his body. He shuddered with suppressed anger, which Ortiz took as fear, and grinned. He laughed, a low rumbling sound, and leaned in even closer.

"Well, it's the pretty one. Come to let Ortiz make you happy?"

"No," Crane ground out, remembering to keep his accent, and letting his anger give him the strength to continue the charade. "I delivered food, that's all."

"Ahhh, but Ortiz could show you so many things little one. Things you never saw in your village. Thing you'll never see again."

Crane believed that. He had watched, with barely contained fury, as Ortiz had fondled and harassed the crew. He beat one man almost to death, and another he had dragged off for hours, the screams coming from his cabin leaving little to the imagination. Crane suspected he was going to have to kill this man. He had come to that realization yesterday. He knew Ortiz would not give up, and Crane would be ready, with whatever force necessary. He valued human life. No one who worked with Nelson could do any less, but there came a time when the only path was to kill. He had done so before with regret, and only he would know that this time the regret would be little.

"I have a job to do Senor. The captain must have his meal on time, or he will complain and dock my pay. Please Senor. I have to go." He wiggled a little, trying to get his toes down on the deck. Ortiz stared at him for a moment, his free hand stilling its exploration of Crane's abdomen. There was a chilling intelligence behind the dark eyes that studied him.

"There is something about you my pretty one. I do not know what it is, but before we reach the end of our voyage I will know everything about you." The last was said with a husky meaning that made Crane shudder again. Oh yeah, this guy was going down. He found his feet back on the deck, and he hastily made his escape back to the galley, not looking back. He knew the small eyes followed him until he was out of sight.

The next night he hit the jackpot. He was once again seated on the fantail, leaning casually against the funnel when he heard Chandron call to Ortiz.

"Diego. Get on the radio. Make sure that Hasad is on schedule to meet us in Sapporo. Tell him we dock at noon day after tomorrow, and leave again at 1:00 on the dot. If he is not there in that time he can get his weapons elsewhere no matter how much money he has. Make sure you tell him that."

"What about the informant. Has he been able to tell you more?"

"Nothing yet. Something is going on, but he has not yet found out what. He will be calling in an hour. Make your call to Hasad and then wait for the other call. Let me know what you hear."

Crane nodded to himself. Finally! He had the information he needed. Tonight he would send the final information, and that would be it. He could spend the rest of the voyage staying out of Ortiz's way, and trying to figure out exactly how he was going to get back on Nelson and Morton's good side. Both tasks seemed likely to be difficult.

He also considered the last bit about an informant. An informant where? It seemed most likely in the government, but what branch? ONI, Japanese Security, or ATF? He needed to find out, warn Smith. He settled back to a more comfortable position, pretending to be asleep in the warmth of the setting sun. He had about an hour it seemed to wait for his answers.

It was closer to two hours, and the sun was almost completely gone before the voices returned. Crane had been concerned that he would have to leave for his steward duties, but he still had time. He appeared to be asleep against the funnel, his ear pressed to the metal.

"Diego, I've been waiting. What do you have?"

"Hasad says he'll be there. Just after we dock, with the money. They'll take the cargo with them. They'll bring their own trucks, appropriately marked as seafood suppliers."

"Good, Good. And the other call?"

"There is a problem there. He says that there is an agent among us, but he doesn't know where. Information on our customers has reached them. There have been arrests made where none should have been. He says they are getting information daily, at night. Then they act the next day. We should put a guard on the radio room, and search the ship for transmitters in case he is here and not back at the compound."

"Yes. It is disturbing to think we may have a traitor among us. I think it would be best if this ship were to have an… accident once we leave Sapporo, and once _we_ leave the ship of course. That should take care of anyone among the crew."

Crane sucked in a breath of air at the callousness of the statement. These men were animals! He leaned closer as Chandron continued.

"Place the guard now. Someone you trust. You do the search yourself."

Crane heard Ortiz leave the room, and with a glance at his watch he rose to his feet. He was due in the galley. That should keep him out of Ortiz's path for a while, and he had a few things he wanted to do on the bridge anyway.

Thirty minutes later found him on the bridge, tray in hand, waiting for the Captain to acknowledge his presence. He didn't mind waiting, as it gave him an opportunity to look at the compass, Loran and the charts laid out on the table he was standing casually by. He kept his gaze carefully blank as he memorized everything. He knew where they were, their course and speed. He was set. A quick command from the Captain released him back to the galley, and he played with his stew once again. He listened as the other men muttered angrily about the search going on. No one dared complain too loud, not wanting to call down the wrath of Ortiz.

In the following hours Ortiz worked over the ship inch by inch. He left no compartment unsearched, down to the bilges. After many frustrating hours, he retreated to the passenger cabin, satisfied that no transmitter existed. A man sat in the passageway near the radio room, watching the door. Crane had made it a point to drop by with some coffee. He chatted for a few moments before taking the cup back to the galley, empty. He had a plan.

At midnight he once more made his way down the corridor with a cup of coffee. This time it contained a little something extra. The guard greeted him eagerly, accepting the cup, and taking a deep drink. Once again Crane made small talk, until the guard started to nod, then fell asleep. He would wake in a few minutes, never realizing he had been drugged.

Crane moved swiftly into the radio room, picking the lock easily, and sent his coded message as quickly as he could. He had prepared it earlier, ready for this moment. He included all of the information he had gained, but in a special code only Smith would be able to decode, thus limiting the exposure of the information. To encode the message that way might sound an alarm, but he had to take the chance. As it was, they would not be expecting a broadcast tonight, and it may be able to slip past the mole. He had to chance some exposure in order to allow the agencies to make the arrests.

He returned the radio room to how he had found it, making sure there was no indication it had been used. Then he slipped out of the door, locking it behind him. He went to stand where he had been, and reached out to lightly slap the face of the guard. He hastily withdrew his arm as the guard started awake, looking around in a puzzled fashion.

"You were telling me of Margarita, you say she is waiting for you, but how do you know. My woman, she said she would wait, but I found her with the baker. Your woman will be the same."

The guard shook his head, slightly confused by the gap in his memory, but it was small, and he put it down to being tired and bored. "No, No my friend. She is faithful my Margarita. The secret is to have an ugly woman. No one else wants her, and she is grateful that you do. She will wait forever for you!" They shared a laugh, and then Crane took the cup back to the galley.

He was pleased with the night's work. He made his way back to his quarters, ignoring the snores coming from the other bunks. He pulled off his shoes and, fully clothed, lay down and pulled the scratchy wool blanket up around his shoulders. It wasn't unpleasantly cold, even at these latitudes. The global warming was having a definite effect, as the average temperature in August here used to be around 55 degrees. The last few days had been in the seventies. A fact he would soon become very grateful for.

He had managed to nod off despite the noise of his bunkmates when all of a sudden the ship's alarm went off, Crane was up on his feet, shoes on and heading out on deck, before his sleep befuddled mind remembered that he wasn't on _Seaview_. Luckily there were other people stumbling around confused by the late night noise. Several men were herding everyone else toward the fantail as they turned out of the cabins and their duty stations. When most of the crew was assembled a dark figure appeared on the bridge deck that overlooked them. The stout figure of the captain could be made out in the murkiness of the ship's running lights. Suddenly, spotlights were turned on from beside the captain, flooding the fantail with light. Crane, like everyone else shielded his eyes, all the while looking for a means of escape should the need arise. There was really only one option after all there were only so many places to hide on a ship. As he was slowly moving through the assembled sailors to reach the rail, the Captain spoke.

"You will all remain here while your cabins are searched. Then you will take off all your clothes and they will be searched. Any man who refuses will be made to comply. You will stand by until then. That is all."

Crane stayed by the rail, until he was called forward to strip. He wasn't sure what exactly prompted this search, but he thought that it was possible that the mole had told the gunrunner that the government informant was still broadcasting. Lee hoped that his special code to Smith, with the particulars of the meet was not part of the mole's knowledge. If they didn't know that the agency knew about the meet, they might still be going ahead with it.

Once they were allowed to return to their cabin, Lee and his cabin mates found their meager possessions in a pile in the center of the small room. They sorted it out as best they could and returned to their bunks. It was now just after 0200. Crane waited until the other men had once again started snoring before he slipped quietly from his bunk and went on deck. Before he left he slipped his 'survival pack' a plastic bag containing matches, fishing line, a small pocketknife, and a few small band-aids, into his pocket, he already had his larger knife with a marlin spike on his belt, as it was considered part of his seaman's uniform. The marlinspike had been modified slightly so that it made a fine lock pick for many locks. He wasn't sure why he did it, but he had learned long before to listen to his little voices. He left his shoes in the cabin, as they were not conductive to sneaking around. He padded out on to the fantail, and leaned against the funnel. If anyone asked, he was unable to return to sleep, and was hoping that a little night air would make him sleepy. In his dark jean, dark denim shirt, and with his dark coloring he doubted if anyone could see him anyway if they were not looking. He was also standing in the dark shadow of the ship's superstructure, so he was shielded that way too.

He could hear a voice, and after a moment he could make out the words.

"Nothing, how can there be nothing? A message got through tonight, that means there is someone on board with a transmitter, which you assure me isn't so, or they are using our radio. The room has been guarded since yesterday, and you swear no one got by the guards. Someone is either incompetent or lying. Find out which it is and take the necessary steps!" There was a crashing sound, and Crane realized that Chandron had been speaking on the ships' phone system, no doubt to Ortiz somewhere else on the ship.

That meant he probably wasn't going to get anything else anytime soon, but at least there had been no mention of the specifics of his broadcast this evening. That meant it had gone through to Smith, un-decoded, and he had acted upon it without notifying the mole, whoever he may have been. Crane had to hope that it was someone they could find easily, and manipulate to allow for the operation to go through. He suspected that the mole was not highly placed in whatever organization he/she was in, since they only seemed to know that information was being leaked, not the content, or the source.

He turned to go back to his cabin, and found himself face to face with Ortiz. The large man, his face hidden in the shadows, laughed at his start of surprise.

"Hello pretty. You have decided to come to Ortiz eh? I will treat you good."

Crane retreated back against the funnel, his avenues of escape blocked. He shook his head, not sure if Ortiz could see him or not. "No! I couldn't sleep so I was taking a walk. I am going back to my cabin _now_." He said the last with all the authority he had learned during years of command.

Unfortunately it didn't faze Ortiz. The nasty laugh came again. "Oh, the pretty one has a backbone, unlike the rest of them. That will make it more fun." He advanced on Crane. Forcing himself against the smaller man. Crane did his best to push him back, but was having little success. Ortiz put out one huge paw, and stroked it down Crane's side. He flinched at the contact.

"Stop it!" he demanded, pushing the hand away. He got himself set to fight, he wasn't going to let this man… he didn't even want to think about it.

"Fight me," Ortiz hissed, "I like it like that. And it will last longer that way." He continued holding Crane against the funnel with one hand, and started to move the other hand back to where it had been.

Crane hit him on the solar plexus with as much force as he could given their close proximity. The air, fetid and nasty, rushed out of the bigger man's lungs, and Crane moved away as his grip loosened. Unfortunately he couldn't get past Ortiz to get back to his cabin, instead he could only move further out onto the fantail. No escape there except over the side to the sea, not what he had in mind.

Ortiz, finally getting his air back, let loose with an evil laugh. "Not only a backbone, but teeth as well! All the better for me! The worse for you though," he warned as he stalked after Crane, who turned at bay in an open space that would give him room to maneuver, and take away the giant's advantage to some extent.

They closed on each other, exchanging blows. Crane managed to avoid most of the punches, and used every bit of his skill to keep out of the man's clutches where he knew he would be doomed. It was becoming increasingly evident that he was not going to be able to get away from the man just by fighting. He would have to put an end to it. He circled away from the man, and pulled his knife from its pouch on his belt. The murky darkness hid his movements from Ortiz, and he held the knife, the blade open to its full 4 inches long his thigh so it could not be seen. Even with this… animal, he had to try to bring this to another conclusion.

"Look," he said, "Let's just stop dancing around and call it a night. I go back to my cabin, and you go wherever you go, and we call it a draw. No hard feelings, and nothing said. This isn't going to end well for either of us."

"It will end well for me, pretty. Maybe not so well for you," came the reply, and Crane was reminded of the other man who had fallen into Ortiz's clutches, and how he hadn't been seen or heard from since the screams had come from Ortiz's cabin. Crane had a good idea where the man had gone, and suspected that if he let Ortiz get the better of him, he would be joining that other victim.

Ortiz began stalking him again, and Crane turned, keeping him in front. He kept the knife down, not giving away its presence. Suddenly Ortiz charged, and Crane gave ground, trying to stay back. Unfortunately he couldn't watch where he was going, and he backed in to some rope anchors. His lower legs could not move, and Ortiz hit him like a freight train. They both went over backwards, but as they did, Crane's left leg, trapped by the rope anchors, stayed in place a little too long. He heard and felt the bones snap. He had to fight down the nausea as the wave of pain ran up his leg. He had managed to hold on to his knife as they went over. Ortiz was rearing back, no doubt to get in a punch that would finish Crane off. Instead, he grunted in agony as Crane brought the knife up with all the power he could muster. His aim was true, and he felt the knife blade sink in under the breastbone, and into the heart.

For a moment they were frozen in that tableau. Crane, lying flat on his back on the deck, Ortiz, on his knees straddling Crane's slim body, leaning forward, arms spread as if ready to grab the smaller man. Then Ortiz slowly began leaning further and further forward until he fell against Crane's chest, pinning him to the deck. There was no breath of life left in the big man, and Crane heaved a sigh of relief, and felt only the smallest bit of regret at taking a life.

He grunted as he rolled the body off, having to use all of his rapidly failing energy. He stifled a groan as he moved his leg, and then swore as he felt the bones grate. He was considering what he was going to do with Ortiz. The only viable option was to toss him over the side, but the logistics were a bit beyond him at that moment. He was only a few feet from the rail, and it was still dark, but he wasn't really up to heavy lifting. The broken leg he could explain away as an accident on the stairway, also explaining the bruises he would no doubt be sporting.

In a matter of moments that option was taken from him as he heard the intercom come on, "Ortiz, where are you? Come here _now_!" Chandron bellowed. When Ortiz didn't appear, there would be another search. Even if he managed to heave the man over the side, they would find him here on the fantail nowhere near a stairway and he would have to explain the broken leg, bruises, and torn clothes he sported. There would be no escape if they caught him. He dragged himself over to the rail, and looked over the side. The boat was still making about 20 knots. He hoped that he could get far enough away to not be sucked down by the propellers as they passed. Jumping was not an option. He dragged himself under the rail, and with great care allowed his body to hang down the side of the ship. He gritted his teeth against the pain in his leg. After hanging there for a second he let go, bracing himself for the moment he hit the water.

It was all he had expected. It felt like someone was trying to rip his leg off! He forced himself back to the surface, swimming as powerfully as he could. He could feel the downward pull of the propellers as they passed, and he gave it everything he could. After what seemed like hours the ship had passed, and he was in its wake. He treaded water, painfully, and looked after the departing ship. As he watched the searchlights that had been used earlier to light the fantail came on, making the ship glow as it disappeared into the distance. In a matter of minutes it was no long a ship with lights, but instead a glow on Crane's horizon, then it was gone. He was alone. Really alone.

He cast his eyes up to the stars. He found the ones he was looking for, and oriented himself to the north and east. When he had peeked at the charts earlier he had seen the Aleutian Islands about five miles off the plotted course. He was reasonably sure that he would be able to reach one of them. It was just a matter of swimming there. Usually five miles was not a problem for Crane. But he had never had to cover that kind of distance with a broken leg, and exhausted to boot. He sighed. Well there was no use waiting around, he needed to get out of the water, and that wouldn't happen until he got to land. He started swimming.

Chapter 2-Six days earlier, USRN _Seaview_.

Chip Morton rolled over on his bunk and cracked one eye to peer at the chronometer. The alarm would be going off soon, so he might as well get up. He was surprised that he hadn't been awakened earlier by the sound of Lee Crane getting ready for the day in the next cabin, as often happened. He had groused at Lee about it, but Crane just smiled and suggested getting up earlier. Morton had told him what to do with 'earlier', and the two men had shared a laugh, comfortable with the bickering.

Morton rolled on out of the bunk and stretched, his tall husky body feeling well rested despite the late night. "Good god, I'm getting like Lee," he thought, knowing his friend and Captain was able to function just fine on 5 hours of sleep, and sometimes less. He laughed off the thought, and moved into the head for his morning shower. He was coming out several minutes later, drying his hair with a towel when he saw the envelope on the deck near the door. Frowning he went and picked it up, instantly recognizing Lee Crane's handwriting on the front.

Dropping his towel on the bunk, he sat down next to it, and opened the envelope. He felt a lump forming in his stomach. What had Lee done? He pulled out some notepaper with Crane's name printed on it, and began to read.

"Chip, I know you are going to be pissed about this, so I'll say 'sorry' right now. I got a call from Smith last night after we went to bed. He needs someone right away, and I have agreed to go." Morton stopped reading, dropping the note to his lap.

"Of course you agreed to go you idiot. When the hell…" Chip picked up the note again.

"Well, I hope what ever you just called me wasn't too bad. Remember I am still your Commanding Officer, and a little respect would be nice, even if you don't agree with my decisions. Smith says it should take about a week. I hope so. I don't know if I'll be able to get in touch. Take care of my boat, and don't take it out on the crew, not that I think you would. Save it up for me, and I promise to listen to the whole thing when I get back to make it up to you. See you, Lee"

Morton crumpled the paper and threw it across the room. He stamped after it, and picked up the microphone. "Control Room," he ground out.

"Control Room, aye. This is O'Brien."

"O'Brien, when did the Captain leave the boat?"

"He left at 0230 Sir. FS1 is due back anytime now."

"Where did he go?"

"He uh... didn't say, Sir. Kowalski will know when he gets back. They uh... flew east though, when they left."

"No flight plan?" Morton growled.

"The Captain said it was to remain classified, Sir. That he was cleared to his landing area."

"Oh, that's just fine. And why wasn't I alerted to his leaving the boat?"

"The Captain…"

"Wait, don't tell me. The Captain wanted it that way. Fine. I'll be down to relieve you in 45 minutes."

"Aye Sir," O'Brien replied. He didn't sound happy about the thought.

Morton finished dressing in record time, and went down the corridor to Nelson's cabin. The Admiral was sometimes up with the early watch, but occasionally he slept in. Owner's prerogative he called it. Lee always kidded him about it, calling it 'banker's hours' when Nelson didn't appear until 0800. Morton shook away the thought of Crane. It made his blood pressure go up, and he wanted to remain calm for talking with the Admiral. One of them needed to be calm, and he was sure it was not going to be Nelson.

He was lifting his hand to knock, when he heard the roar come from the cabin.

"Oops," he thought, "too late." Nelson had obviously had a note too. He sighed, and knocked.

The door was jerked open, and Nelson stood there in his robe, note still in his hand, and glared at the Executive Officer. Morton waved the wrinkled copy he had retrieved from his deck, and Nelson nodded and motioned him in.

"When the hell did he leave?"

"0230. No flight plan, and orders not to 'disturb' us with the fact he was leaving."

"Damn him. It's been almost 3 months. I thought Smith had finally recruited some people of his own. He promised he would speak to me first before he approached Lee with any 'job'."

Morton raised an eyebrow. Lee would have considered that a step beyond what he allowed Nelson to control in his life. Nelson saw the brow rise, and nodded.

"I know, Lee would have a fit if he knew. I made Smith promise not to say anything. Sometimes it's good to have a good memory of your youth, and your friends' youth. I wanted to be sure they weren't just using Lee as a sort of utility fill in, on call for all jobs. He doesn't need to know it, but before his last job Smith called. I made him jump through enough hoops to convince me that Lee was actually the only viable choice for the job. I also made sure that they covered him that time. Usually they seem to just throw him out without a plan and count on him to get it done, and now this. I never should have trusted a career spy to keep his word."

Nelson had seated himself behind his desk during his tirade, and now pounded his fist on it. "It seems I shouldn't have trusted the occasional spy either." He raised a hand as Morton started to speak. "No, I don't mean that Lee lied. I know why he left this way. He didn't want the argument. We made quite the thing about his being around a lot more just a few hours beforehand; I imagine that was a major factor. He had made up his mind, and wasn't going to change it, so he avoided the issue. Of course that doesn't mean I won't keel haul his butt when he gets back."

Morton grinned. Nelson had gone from angry, to frustrated, to accepting in a matter of minutes. A typical reaction when it came to Lee Crane's escapades. Lee got away with a lot with Nelson, because of … because in Lee Crane Nelson had found the son he had never knew he wanted. Just as Lee had found a father, his own having died when Crane was a small boy. It was funny to watch them sometimes. Two very opinionated, and in a way egotistical, men learning to deal with each other. Not out of duty, but because they cared enough to do so.

"I'll help you with that, Sir," Morton said about the keel hauling, visions of such passing through his mind. "Kowalski will be back soon. Lee didn't file a flight plan, though they flew off towards the east. Too many places they could have gone in the time since they left. Even then, we won't know where he ended up."

"Oh, I'll know., Nelson said, and reached for the phone on his desk. "Radio room. I want a secure line to Admiral Smith at ONI. I don't care what they have to do to get him on the line, but get him." He hung up, and looked at Chip. "I'm not sure what I'll do about it though, when I get the information."

Morton frowned, "I don't understand, Sir."

Nelson sat back in his chair. "I wonder sometimes if we are 'enabling' Lee's recklessness when it comes to ONI missions by always going to his rescue."

"You think we shouldn't? That we should just leave him out there to twist in the wind when ONI drops the ball?" Morton said, becoming angry. Surely Nelson couldn't be suggesting…

Nelson held up a hand again to stop Morton. He could see the color rising in Chip's face, and wanted to forestall the explosion. "No! I do not mean that. I will _always_ go to Lee's aid whenever, and wherever, I can. What I mean is how _Smith_ views us. By leaving Lee with no backup, and putting him in even more danger than he might already be in, he draws _us_ into the mission. Using _us_ to cover his other agents' ineptitude. Lee gets the job done, and _we_ get Lee out. Smith gets the kudos in Washington, and we don't even bill him for the process since we are so happy to have Lee back in one, or almost one, piece. He looks great, and Lee keeps taking the chances."

Morton nodded slowly. "I see what you mean. I never really thought about that. Lee is his best agent, it must really gall Admiral Smith that he won't give up a submarine command for full time with the ONI."

"We've had several discussions about that, I assure you. He keeps playing the National Security card, and I keep countering with what we've done on _Seaview_ outside of his office to secure National, in fact Global, Security. He's gone so far as to petition the Secretary of the Navy to have Lee reassigned from _Seaview_ to ONI."

"He's Reserve. He can't be reassigned against his will."

"Oh you'd be surprised at what can and can't be done. I put a swift end to that with a Presidential order. Teach him to try to torpedo _me,_" Nelson replied with a grin. The grin fled as he looked at Lee's note. He had known as soon as he saw it lying on the deck by his door that it wasn't going to be good. As soon as he saw Lee's writing on it he knew it was going to be worse than that.

What he had never told Lee, never told anyone else, was how he dreaded every time the younger man left on a mission. He knew the odds. He had worked for ONI himself. He knew how many things could go wrong, and how easily he, Nelson, could lose the man that he had come to think of as a son. Of course he groused to Crane about lost time, and missions put on hold for _Seaview's_ Captain to recover from various bumps and bruises, but he never spoke of the personal toll it took.

It was only the love he had for Lee, the respect he had for Lee's ability, and Lee's need to do what he saw as his duty, that kept Nelson from taking the final step and forbidding the missions all together. It was in his purview as Lee's employer. He could push it through as a requirement for the position as Captain of the _Seaview_. He knew how much Lee valued his crew and his boat. But he was afraid that step would drive Lee away permanently, even if it meant losing the _Seaview_. Lee Crane would not be controlled. Even as a Naval Officer he had always followed orders his own way. He got the job done, followed regulations as much as possible, and usually succeeded beyond all expectations, but he would not be controlled.

Under the calm, cool, exterior was a temper as hot, or even hotter, than Nelson's own. He had seen it a few times, aimed at someone else. He had even felt the flames himself when they had arguments over what the _Seaview_ and her crew might be subjected to during a mission, but he had never felt the full blast, and did not wish to. He wanted Lee to stay so he put up with the leaden feeling that grew in his stomach when he was off the boat. He would do it again.

"I'm just not sure how to 'cut the cord' so to speak. I _will_ find out what's going on. Where he is. But I think we're going to have to be a bit more circumspect in any help we may need to give him." Nelson thought for a moment and then continued. "Of course there is always the possibility that he won't need our help atall. He is perfectly capable of completing a mission on his own. He's a good agent, the best. He's managed to overcome the fumbling of Smith and his office before. We might be worrying unnecessarily."

"With Lee it's always best to plan for the worst. Sir. I learned that about two days after I met him at the Academy. _No one_ finds trouble like Lee can."

"Agreed," Nelson said as the phone rang. "This should be Smith. Are you going on duty now?" At Morton's nod he continued, "I'll come down to the Control Room and let you know what's going on."

"Thank you, Sir." Morton left.

Nelson picked up the phone and acknowledged the notification that the call was being put through, when he heard Admiral Smith say hello he attacked "Smith! What the hell did you think you were doing? We had a deal…"

An hour later a dressed and groomed Nelson came down the spiral staircase into the nose. Chip looked up from the charting table as he caught the movement out of the corner of his eye. He gave the conn to Lt. James, and moved forward, serving himself a cup of coffee before he sat down across from Nelson at the table.

"You should have seen Sharkey this morning. You would have thought I was going to bite him. Lee had him all worked up. Used it to keep him from waking one of us up I guess. Clever idiot."

"Yes, he's very clever about getting his way. It's good that he has people around him that understand that, and can take steps to see he doesn't get it all the time." The two men grinned at each other, and then Nelson sobered. "I don't have good news. After a discussion that I won't repeat to you with Smith I found out that Lee is undercover working to take out an arms dealer and terrorist. He's filling in for an agent that was in place for almost a year, but had appendicitis just as everything was falling into place. He's already on his way to meet a ship. They don't know where the ship is going or where the meet is to be, evidently that's what Lee is on board to find out."

"Where did it sail from? What's the name of the vessel? We can track it down."

Nelson laughed. "It seems that that is classified. To a level even I am not privy according to Smith, if you believe that! I have a few calls in to other sources, but I don't want Smith to know I am asking. I told him that I was tired of it all, and that Lee was on his own. No rescue from _Seaview_ or her crew should the need arise. I told him we had gotten an emergency call from one of the NIMR research stations in the Galapagos Islands, and that we were going there at flank speed. I let him know that I didn't appreciate him taking my Captain under the circumstances."

Morton grinned into his coffee cup. He was sure that the Admiral had expressed his displeasure rather well. "Kowalski came back. He says he dropped Lee of at Connaght at 0500 this morning. There are a couple of ports nearby that a ship of any size could be leaving from. Portland, Seattle, even Victoria."

"We'll know soon. The ONI is working with the ATF on this, and I have a friend there. He should have enough clearance to find out what we need to know."

"So we wait?" Morton said, not really happy with the idea. As he had told the Admiral earlier, with Lee Crane it was always best to plan for the worst.

"We don't have much choice. Business as usual until we get some answers."

"Aye, Sir," Morton said in a frustrated tone as he rose and went back toward the chart table. Nelson watched him for a moment, and then turned to look out the Herculite windows. He wasn't very good at waiting either.

Three days later they were still waiting. Nelson had called nearly everyone short of the President. He was about to break down and call Smith again when a call was put through to his cabin. Morton, who had been brainstorming with the Admiral on new avenues to pursue, started to leave, but was waved back to his seat by Nelson.

"This is Nelson."

"Harry it's Boyd. Sorry it took so long to get back to you. Your boy is in the middle of a big hairball."

"What do you mean?"

"He's undercover with one of the most ruthless arms dealers in the world. People regularly disappear when they get on his bad side. And to add to the mix, the arms dealer is reportedly dealing with Ben Hasad, the terrorist. There is some speculation that beside rocket launchers, there may even be some tactical nukes involved. The deal is reportedly going down in the next week. No one knows where or when, that's your boy's job. He's been reporting back, evidently on the ship's radio, they've already gotten more info on Chandron's doings in the last 3 days than they had in the year previously. He's good Harry."

Nelson felt that leaden lump grow heavier as he listened to the details. "All right, so now we know what he is doing, but do we know where he is doing it?"

"Well, that's a bit of a problem. They sailed out of Portland, at that time the ship was Venezuelan registered and named the _Oronoco_. Unfortunately, he has changed it so often that there is no telling what she is now. She's a fishing ship, one of the big ones that goes out in fleets and stays out for weeks on end. She could be going anywhere in the Pacific, or even the Indian, Ocean. We won't know until Crane lets us know, if he can."

"So basically what you are saying is that my Captain is we don't know where, on a ship we may or may not know the name of, going someplace in the Pacific, or maybe the Indian, Ocean with no back up possible while dealing with vicious gun runners and terrorists. And to top it off he doesn't even have his own transmitter, he has to take the chance of using their equipment."

Morton stiffened and moved to the edge of his chair, the color draining out of his face as he listened to Nelson's recap of what he had been told.

"He couldn't take the chance of a search…"

"That's beside the point! He's alone, and you people have no way of telling if he's still alive, or has been dumped over the side of the ship!"

"Harry, I'm not the one that set this up. Smith brought in your man, and they worked out the plan for getting him in. I'm not saying that I wouldn't have taken the chance myself for a chance to get Chandron and Hasad, but this time it wasn't me."

"I know Boyd. I know. Sorry." Nelson said. He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to calm himself. He knew it was not Boyd's responsibility, but… He finally sighed, and spoke into the phone again. "Thanks for the information Boyd. Will you let us know when Lee contacts you again?"

"If I can, Harry. Technically I'm breaking protocol by telling you this. But I know you won't leak it, and your clearance is usually higher than mine is, so what the hell. Boy did you piss off Smith, Harry. You'll have to tell me how you did it. The cold bastard is hard to crack. Could come in handy."

"We'll compare notes later Boyd. Nelson out." He put down the phone, and for a moment sat staring blankly at the bulkhead. Then he turned his eyes to Morton, who was still pale, and perched on the end of his chair. "You heard just about everything. He's really stepped in it this time. I'm not sure what we can do. No one knows where the ship is, or even what the name of it is. We have a vague description of a fishing vessel of Venezuelan registry. He doesn't have his own broadcasting equipment, he has to use the ship's equipment, so if he can't access that for any reason no one would even know if he was in trouble or not. All we can do is hope that_this_ time he doesn't need our help."

Morton looked at him, miserable. "Always expect the worse with Lee, Sir," he said, and then as a measure of his concern, he rose and left with out waiting for Nelson's dismissal.

Nelson didn't notice. The words were echoing through his mind. "Always expect the worse with Lee." He closed his eyes. God he hoped not.

Chapter 3- Little Sitkin Island, Dawn

Crane was huddled against the rock, his small fire burned down to glowing embers. He had managed to drop off to sleep from sheer exhaustion almost an hour earlier. His dreams were not pleasant, and he jolted awake to find the view a little brighter, but none the less dismal.

He was looking down the 'beach', and could see the bare rocks curving in the distance. That meant the island was not a large one, and he once again thought he must be on Little Sitkin. He wedged a few more pieces of driftwood into his fire, and blew gently on the embers to make them flare to life. He was cold, and his leg was a constant ache. He would have to do something about that soon. He didn't know how long he would be here. It wasn't likely to be a tourist attraction, and an island this small, and this far out along the chain would be unlikely to have any year round inhabitants. He hoped that included the polar bears that were known to roam out this far on the ice pack during the winter. He really didn't feel up to a hungry bear. As he thought that his stomach growled. Well, he might be able to eat one, but other than that… He shook off the thought. That wasn't going to help. He need to take care of his leg, make a shelter, and figure out how he was going to attract some attention. The fishing fleet that the _Oronoco_ was pretending to join was much further to the North, and would be a highly unlikely source of help. He would get a signal fire going as soon as he could gather enough wood together. Back to that leg. He really didn't care for what he was going to have to do.

He had put aside two nearly straight pieces of wood from the pile he had found in the lee of the rock. Looking around he found a notch in the rocks that looked about the right size, and he scooted himself there. He very carefully lowered his broken leg onto the rock so that his heel was in the notch, then he backed up until he could just feel a pull on the leg. He instantly lost his appetite as the pain caused his nausea to return. Oh this was going to be nasty. He closed his eyes, and practiced some of the techniques he had been taught for dealing with pain. It really was all a thing of mind over matter. If you didn't mind, then the pain didn't matter. He snorted. Bull! It still hurt.

He gritted his teeth and began slowly pulling himself backward. He again felt the grate of the bone, and was unable to stifle the yell of pain that rose in his throat. He kept pulling until he heard a small 'snap'. He hoped that was the bones aligning. He pulled the two pieces of wood over and fitted them to either side of his leg. Using a few strips of his pant leg, which he had split to allow for the swelling, he bound the improvised splints to his leg, knotting the cloth. It was good tough denim and should last, though he really hoped it didn't have to. He wanted off this island, now.

After several minutes he pulled himself back to the large rock, and then used it to pull himself to his feet. He had arranged the splint so that the ends of the wood were even with the bottom of his foot, and took some of the weight. It wasn't great, but it would allow him to get around, with the help of another piece of wood that acted as a staff.

He surveyed what he could see in the growing light. The 'forest' was actually tall brush, ten to twelve feet high. He could use the bendable stalks to form a shelter. He made sure that the fire was banked so it would not go out, and hobbled toward a likely looking place to start a shelter. He would do that first, then try to find something to eat, maybe by then his stomach would be settled down. After that he would figure out how to get around the island, he didn't want to miss someone who just might live here. He was still alive, and things were coming together to keep him that way. Maybe his luck was looking up.

Chapter 4- _Seaview_ 1000 hours

Nelson and Chip were pouring over a chart of the area their next cruise was due to take them. They had both decided that just brooding over the situation would not help. Yesterday Nelson's contact in ATF had let them know that Crane had radioed at midnight with some more information, but so far nothing today. They were nervous, and the crew, still in the dark about what was going on with their Skipper, was walking on eggs around the volatile command crew. Morton was chewing butts over the smallest infraction, and Nelson was a grim, quiet figure stalking the boat at all hours.

Sparks called from the radio shack, "Admiral, you have a call on the secure line."

Nelson and Morton exchanged glances. The calls were a mixed blessing. The only information they could get came in the calls, so they looked forward to them with anticipation. But on the flip side, the possibility of the news being bad made them a thing to dread.

"I'll take it in the nose, Sparks. Chip, you come too."

They moved to the nose, and Morton closed the crash doors so that they would have privacy. Nelson put the call on the speakerphone, and told Sparks to put the call through.

"Harry you there?" It was Ibsen.

"I'm here, so is Chip Morton."

"I have some news. I'll let you figure out if it is good or not. Last night around midnight a specially coded message was sent to Admiral Smith, personally. Because it was in his personal code it went directly to him, and was not decoded in the radio room. Evidently Crane found out that there is a mole somewhere in one of our organizations, leaking information back to Chandron for months it seems. He found out when the meet is, and was afraid to send it regular channel in case the mole found out. That would have been the end of any meeting, and the end of your boy too. They were evidently looking already, but so far Crane was still covered. Anyway the meet is this afternoon in Sapporo, Japan. Hasad will meet the boat and take the weapons. We've been very circumspect about who's being told. We have narrowed down who the mole is by the information that he or she is feeding back to Chandron, and those people are being left out of the loop. Crane will leave the boat before it docks so he'll be in the clear."

"I want to be there Boyd."

"Harry…'

"No. He's my Captain, and my friend. I want to be there. Chip and I will come on the flying sub. We can be there in a little under two hours. That should be about on time. Tell us where to meet you."

"For god's sake Harry. I'm not even supposed to be telling you this! You show up and Smith will know someone leaked it to you. We already have one mole, I don't want to be number two."

"Don't worry Boyd. We'll have a good story for Smith. You won't be drawn into it. Now where do we meet?"

After a few more protests Boyd agreed to meet them, and allow them to stand by when the arrests went down. After hanging up Nelson sent Morton off to get the Flying sub ready to launch, and set up the rotation for the watch.

He sat for a few moments, pondering what he had learned. The gunrunner, Chandron, knew there was an informant on his ship, and had evidently started searching for him. That meant that Lee had taken an incredible chance making another call, even using code. Nelson didn't want to think about Lee's fate if he were caught. He had to continue to believe that Crane's luck would hold out. He got to his feet and headed for his cabin to get his jacket and a few items he wanted to take with him. He had to keep hoping.

Four hours later, Nelson thought back to that hope, and wished he could return to it. The ship now named the _Quetzal_ and sailing under Mexican registry, had docked on time. The two trucks marked as fish shippers arrived at noon, and several men exited the trucks and boarded the ship. The men left in the trucks were swiftly and silently arrested, and the forces moved in. Frogmen went in over the side, and a delegation masquerading as Japanese Fishing Ministry officials went straight in over the gangplank. Shots were fired, and 7 men died. In less than 15 minutes Chandron and Hasad were under arrest, and being hustled off in armored carriers.

The rest of the crew was lined up on the dockside, and Boyd Ibsen allowed Nelson and Morton to follow him down. They walked the line, but Crane was not there. Calls to the pilot boat returned a negative. No one had gotten off the _Quetzal_. The ship had been watched closely as it entered the harbor. No one had jumped off. The ship had been searched thoroughly. The weapons had been swiftly removed, but no one else was found. There was only one weird note reported.

The body of a huge man was found in the freezer. He had been dead for several hours at least, and had died of a knife wound to the chest. He had been identified as Diego Ortiz, Chandron's right hand man. Ibsen looked thoughtfully at Nelson and went to the Captain of the ship. In Spanish he asked the Captain why several of his crew were missing. His crew manifests listed two more men then were accounted for, and there was a dead man in his freezer, murdered. The Captain muttered something about one of the men being sick, he had died several days out of port, and the superstitious crew would not allow the Captain to bring the man back to port for burial. The man had no family, and so they had buried him at sea.

"The man's name, and where was he from?"

"Miguel Merced. He was from Mexico City. He worked in the engine room. He was very young."

"That accounts for one man, but not the other, and there has been no explanation of the dead body."

The Captain hemmed and hawed, until Nelson couldn't take it anymore.

"He's not going to tell you anything, " he said to Boyd in Spanish. "Just have him and the rest taken to jail. The Japanese will see that they get what they deserve, they are very strict with terrorists since that subway gassing incident."

"No, I have done nothing!" the Captain proclaimed. "We are not terrorists! We are seamen. We only did the boat. Went where they said. To not obey was to be killed. You can not punish us for that!'

Ibsen saw that Nelson's ploy had worked, and moved in, toe to toe with the Captain. "You want our help, then tell us what we want to know. The other missing seaman, Juan Cordilla, what happened to him, and why is Diego Ortiz in your freezer with a knife wound?"

"We don't know exactly what happened. Ortiz he was… a strange man, he liked to… he liked to force himself…" the Captain could not seem to bring himself to complete the sentence. He had however said enough that the three men grasped his meaning. Nelson felt the blood drain out of his face, and Chip grabbed his arm, obviously alarmed at his loss of color. Nelson waved Morton off, and, setting his jaw, moved in close to the Captain.

"Are the missing crewman and the dead man connected?"

"We think so, we don't know for sure. No one saw until after."

"After what?" Nelson snapped impatient with the reticence of the Captain.

"Cordilla, he was handsome. Ortiz liked the handsome ones, chased them. Cordilla avoided him as much as he could, but it is a small ship. Then, early this morning, around 1:30 or 2:00 AM, for some reason they were on the fantail together. Cordilla liked to sit there when he wasn't on duty. I have seen him. The Patron, Chandron, he called for Ortiz, and he did not answer so we started to search. The fantail was the last place searched. We found Ortiz there, the knife still in his chest, his body getting cold. Of Cordilla there was no sign. He was not on board, and the knife it was his. There was only one place he could have gone, into the sea. I do not know if he jumped when he knew he would be discovered, or if Ortiz managed to throw him over after he was stabbed, but either way he was gone."

This time Nelson wavered, and Morton grabbed his arm again, lending support, even though he also felt his knees weaken

"You…You didn't search for him? Go back to see if he was… alive?'

'The Patron, when he saw Ortiz, he said to leave Cordilla to the sea, that he was…" He searched for the word, "…forfeit."

Nelson closed his eyes, and turned his back on the anxious man. He stood for a moment breathing deeply. That lump of lead in his stomach was threatening to come out but he forced it down. He pushed Morton's hand off, and rounded on the Captain.

"Where did he go over? What latitude and longitude?"

"I don't know..."

"Bullshit!" Nelson yelled, grabbing the man's shirt in a fist, and pulling him close. Ibsen waved the guards who started forward back, grinning behind his hand. This was the Harry Nelson he knew. "You have to have some idea. No one loses a man overboard and doesn't notice where they were."

"But the Patron he was there, angry, yelling. I had to be with him. I wasn't on the bridge until later. We had gone for several hours…"

"Fine, then give me those coordinates, your course, and your speed. I'll back track you."

"Senor, I..."

"NOW!" It was a feral growl. One look at the face in front of him, and that of the tall blond man behind the smaller man who was in his face, made the Captain's memory kick into high gear. He recited the coordinates and speed.

Nelson loosened his hold, and seemed to deflate. He gathered Morton with a glance, and started toward the area where the car that could take them back to the flying sub was parked. He suddenly felt every one of his years. Ibsen reached out and touched his arm as he passed.

"Harry, I'm sorry. I only met him once, but I know he was your friend."

Nelson nodded, and kept walking. Morton nodded at Ibsen, and walked after Nelson. His heart hurt, and he had to keep blinking rapidly to clear his vision.

They slipped into the car, and nodded at the driver, who started back to where the FS1 was docked. They sat in silence, both trying not to think. Nelson sighed and turned to Morton. His voice was toneless, and had none of the life that Morton was used to.

"When we get back to the FS1 call _Seaview_, have them move into the area. Have Lt James feed the information into the computer, including the currents in that area. Have it formulate the correct area to look for a… floating object after this amount of time."

"Lee's a good swimmer, Admiral, He could have treaded water…"

"If he went in intentionally maybe. But what if he was hurt, or already…" Nelson couldn't continue. He sucked in a breath, and then let it out. "Depending on where he went in the water the nearest land will still be 5 to 10 miles away, below the horizon to a man in the water, even during the day. If he didn't know exactly where he was he wouldn't even know they were there, and the currents are headed south east in that area, away from the land, he would be more likely to go with the current if he were able to swim."

"I think…"Chip had to stop and clear his throat "Lee wouldn't be an easy mark, Sir. Even to keep his cover he wouldn't allow some guy to…He would have fought back, before he went to the knife. If he was hurt, he wouldn't be able to stay afloat long. It's been over twelve hours now, and will be more by the time we get there." He didn't even want to think about it, but it had to be said. Lee was a strong swimmer, the strongest Morton knew, but even a strong swimmer has limits, and if he was hurt…

"I know," Nelson whispered, and sank back against the seat. They said no more until they reached the FS1.

Chapter 5-Little Sitkin Island-One week later.

Crane threw down the piece of wood he had been whittling in frustration. The tip had split; he had been trying to fashion a spear to use for fishing. While he had been able to get several small fish using the hook and line he had, a bigger fish would be welcome. He had supplemented his fish diet with mussels, berries, and after a brief bout of queasiness, some grubs. He wouldn't starve anytime soon, but he wasn't exactly going to gain weight either. Jaime would have a fit. His jeans were already drooping, and his shirt was getting roomier by the day. Speaking of by the day, things were not looking good in the rescue department. He had a signal fire all ready to light, but no one had been near enough to notice. He had spotted planes, jet liners 30,000 ft up, to the south, but that didn't do him any good. He had caught sight of a ship, possibly a fishing boat the day before yesterday, but it happened at twilight, and the ship was just on the horizon as he lit the fire. They probably couldn't even see the smoke, and they were over the horizon before the light was bright enough in the growing darkness to be seen any distance.

Frustrated, he had gone back to improving his shelter, and hunting for food. A search around the shoreline of the island the day after he landed had not improved his outlook much. A slow process, taking all day due to his leg, he could have run it in less than an hour. As far as he could tell from the shore, the rest of the island was covered in the same brush he had first seen at the place he landed. No sign of any habitation, or even that anyone ever came here. Great.

He had ended up back at his fire, still carefully banked by the rocks. He had made a start on a shelter the previous day, but had stopped when his leg had begun hurting too much to continue. He had sat on a rock over a pool where he could see fish swimming and dangled the line with a small bug on the hook. A small fish, similar to a herring, had bit almost immediately. Lunch. He had cooked and eaten it immediately. After that a short nap, and back to fishing.

He had found his shelter easy to construct thanks to the bend ability of the brush. He had pulled down the boughs of several different plants, and by anchoring them to the ground had created a dome shape. Then he had woven smaller branches between them to make a solid wall and roof. A small shower the night before had rolled off, leaving him dry and warm. He had moved his small fire inside, and used part of his day collecting driftwood to fuel the small fire, and for his signal fire. He had managed not to use any more matches, keeping the fire banked during the day.

He worried about his isolation. He had not thought it possible, anywhere short of the center of the Antarctic, that there could be a place that was so isolated that no one even passed by on a regular basis. He could survive, but once the short summer was done, he was pretty well doomed. He had no warm clothing, no means of getting any, and food would be pretty scarce once the snow and ice moved in. If he didn't freeze or starve to death first, he would make a poor snack for a polar bear.

He tried not to dwell too much on what might happen to him, and instead think about what would be happening back on _Seaview_. He mentally reviewed the schedule. They would be back in Santa Barbara by now, no doubt getting ready for the next cruise. If he recalled correctly they were scheduled to take some scientists to collect samples off the Great Barrier Reef. Sun and sand. Diving in the clear waters. Even at the end of the Southern winter the waters would be warmer there than here.

He suspected that Nelson would be blowing a gasket about now about his Captain's AWOL status. It had been a week now. He knew that Nelson had in the past come to his rescue on several occasions. The Admiral had never seemed to begrudge the time that it took to collect his wayward Captain, and nothing was ever said about the destruction of schedules, or even damage to the boat. Crane knew that there was no chance of _Seaview_ coming to the rescue _this_ time. No one knew where he was. He would have to solve this on his own.

He had tried to figure out how to build a boat or raft that could take him to one of the larger islands. But the brush didn't yield any wood big enough to make a raft, and he had no hides to make a kayak like the native Alaskans. He was pretty sure he could see another island to the south east of his own, but it seemed small, and too far away. He was in no mood for another swim anyway.

He sat up on the bed of leaves he had created inside his shelter, brushing aside the light branches and leaves he used as a 'blanket'. It was just after dawn. He found that while his bed and shelter were not uncomfortable, he still was on '_Seaview_ time' and woke as if he had to report to duty. He had spent a little time whittling, hoping to make the spear, but that was not going to happen this morning.

Time to get up and fish for breakfast. Getting out of the shelter was awkward with his leg, but he managed it from long practice. He was just stretching when he suddenly realized there was something new in the familiar landscape. A canoe, made of wood, and painted with symbols he recognized as being native Alaskan, was pulled up on the shore. He turned to find an old man, a very old man, seated on a rock near where he had sheltered that first morning. He was sitting there just staring out to sea, seeming not to notice Crane.

Lee could only stand there and stare. At first thinking he was still dreaming, he bent down to look back in the shelter to make sure he wasn't there still asleep. No, he seemed to be awake. He turned back to the old man, to find the other now looking directly at him. He raised a hand in a kind of wave, and stepped awkwardly forward.

"Hello! Am I glad to see you, I'm stranded here, can you give me a ride to the nearest town or place with a radio?"

The old man seemed to study him from head to foot, taking in the splints, ragged jeans, equally ragged shirt, and bearded face. Crane knew his hair was a riot of curls, probably tangled from sleep. He was at least clean under the rags, as he had taken time to bathe the day before in the warmth of the midday sun.

Finally the old man spoke. He spoke slowly, and with an accent that Crane couldn't place. "How did you come to this place?"

"I uh... I was on a ship. I fell overboard and swam here. It's been a week." There seemed to be no need to mention details.

"How you break the leg?"

"I broke it when I fell overboard. I splinted it as best I could, but I'm sure it'll have to be broken again by a doctor and reset." A not so subtle hint perhaps, but he was getting anxious. The old man seemed in no hurry to help him.

The old, dark, eyes moved over the shelter. "You built well. It is a good place."

"Thanks."

They stood and sat for a moment in silence, studying each other, old man and young. Then the old man nodded, rose to his feet, and started toward the canoe. "We better get started. My place is an hour away. You can paddle. I will steer." He climbed into the front of the canoe, sat and waited.

"So that's that," Crane thought, caught off guard by the simple orders. It seemed they would be leaving. He slipped back into the shelter and quenched the flames of his fire with several handfuls of sand, making sure it was out. He gathered his hook and line, pocketknife, and mirror, slipping them back into his pocket. He took one last look around his small shelter, happy to be leaving, but still feeling a little sadness at leaving his little 'home'. Weird. He needed to get off this island and back to his boat.

He awkwardly hobbled to the canoe, and pushed it into the water, the old man remained seated in the front, seemingly unconcerned. He climbed into the back seat, and began paddling with the paddle from under the seat. The old man brought out another paddle and steered the canoe to the east and south. "Perhaps that other island is bigger than it looks," Crane thought, but then dismissed the thought. If there were a village there, they would have seen his smoke before this.

They paddled in silence for almost forty-five minutes. The old man guided them around the near island, which had proven to be even smaller than the one Crane had been on. They were now approaching another island, that looked to be larger than the two others put together. The old man guided them into a small dock on the east side of the island, and still silent got out of the canoe and tied it off to a cleat. Without a glance at Crane he started up the dock toward a cabin set back about 30 feet from the shore in a cleared area. As on Crane's island there were no trees, but here there were some open areas that were covered in a long waving grass, and two goats, their long wooly coats brown and matted, were eating large clomps of it.

Crane shrugged and struggled out of the canoe. He had to practically roll out on the dock and then get to his feet. He was afraid he'd end up in the water otherwise. He hurried as fast as his leg would allow after his odd host, anxious to get to a radio. He came up to the cabin, and found the old man seated in a chair outside the weathered building. The door was open, but a screen door had been installed to keep out the flying insects that seemed to inhabit this island in large hoards.

Finally there seemed nothing to do but speak. "Uh… is there a radio I can use?"

The old man shook his head. "No radio."

Crane blinked. There was no way that his old man could survive out here year round with out a radio at the very least. He wasn't even sure that it was possible to stay out here at all. His various trips to this latitude in the winter months were not encouraging. At the very least the goats would not survive.

"Um… is there anyway to contact the authorities? I really need to get a message to someone. My… family probably thinks I'm dead."

The old man seemed to consider this for a long time, while Crane shifted uncomfortably on his feet, trying to ease the leg. He needed to sit down, but there wasn't another chair, and he wasn't sure he could make it back up if he sat on the ground.

"Boat comes from Tlingut. They got radio."

Ah that was better. Now the next question. "And when does the boat come?"

"Once a week. Supplies, mail," the old man nodded to a pile of boxes that Crane had passed on his way to the cabin. Crane felt a sinking feeling in his stomach. He suspected he knew why the old man was in no hurry.

"When does it come next?"

"Came yesterday."

Suspicion confirmed, Crane stumped over to the cabin wall, and slid down to a seated position against it. Well, his luck was holding firm, all bad of course. "How far is Tlingut from here?" There was always the canoe, though how he could talk the old man out of his only transportation Crane didn't have a clue.

"One hundred fifty mile south east."

Mark that option off the list. Looked like he would be visiting here for a while. Well there was a cabin, company, and it looked like the old man had food, so it wasn't all bad. He just wanted to go home though! Back to _Seaview_. Back to Nelson, and Morton, and Jaime, and Sharkey, and the rest of the crew. He blinked rapidly to clear his suddenly blurry eyes. He wasn't usually this way when frustrated, but damn it his friends would think he was dead for another week! He sighed, and looked up to find the old man studying him thoughtfully.

"They still be happy when you come later," he said, evidently divining the cause of Crane's frustration.

"Yes, but in between now and then…" Crane just shook his head.

The old man nodded in understanding, and rose to his feet. He waved at the pile of supplies. "You can help carry?"

Crane nodded wearily, and struggled back up to his feet. His leg was aching, but it was only polite to help, and he suspected the old man had a hard time moving all the boxes himself. He really did look incredibly old.

He hobbled to the pile and grabbed a box then started back to the house. The old man, who had also gone to the pile and taken a box, led Crane into the cabin.

Chapter 6-_Seaview_-Four days later.

Chip Morton threw down the pen he had been using to sign off on reports. He was sitting at his desk, taking care of the paperwork necessary to keep _Seaview_ running. Paperwork usually handled by the Captain of the vessel. Handled by Lee. He closed his eyes and sat back in his chair. It had been eleven days since Lee had disappeared off of the _Oronoco_/_Quetzal_. The _Seaview_ had quartered the area that the computer had printed out as being most likely. Nothing. No Lee, no body. They had gone over that area three times, then expanded the search to the surrounding areas. Two times through the search patterns they went. And with every passing day Nelson had become older and older.

Finally they had been forced to accept that Crane was gone, and his body would not be found. No swimmer could have survived this long. They had contacted the Alaska Coast Guard, and they had had no reports of someone coming ashore anywhere in the area, or any body washing up. They too had searched along the coast, in the many bays and inlets that made up the mainland and islands.

The loss of his friend had left a huge hole in Morton's heart. Shortly after meeting the younger man at the Academy it had become evident to Chip that Lee Crane was his brother at heart, if not by blood. They had been together for four years, nearly inseparable. The years before Crane had come to _Seaview_ where punctuated by infrequent meetings, but they had kept in touch, and had even got together on the holidays, boat movements allowing. The last several years had brought back that feeling from the Academy, and more.

As much as he had enjoyed working on _Seaview_ under John Phillips, something had been missing. When Lee Crane had appeared on the scene to take over, that something had jelled. Suddenly it wasn't just his job anymore, it was home, and his family had expanded to include not only Lee Crane, but also Nelson and the men of the _Seaview_. What had been a good boat had become a great boat. And now the spark was gone.

He knew the _Seaview_ would go on. She would still go out on missions to save the world, still take scientists to collect samples, and still find trouble in the strangest places, but it would not be the same. He suspected that several of the crew would be leaving. The dynamic young Captain had held them as no other could, and while Chip knew himself to be a good commander, he wasn't in Lee Crane's league when it came to inspiring a crew. His greatest concern right now was Nelson.

The older man had participated in the search with every particle of his formidable will. He had been everywhere, looked at everything. He had contacted every agency that might have ships or planes in the area, and had them looking. He had been running on will power and coffee and little else. After more than a week it had come to an end. Even Harriman Nelson could not pull this rabbit out of his hat.

He had visibly sagged as he had agreed with Morton that they had done everything possible. Jamieson, who in the last several days had taken to following Nelson around, nagging about food and rest was standing by, and he had taken the obviously defeated man back to his cabin for a light meal followed by a long rest. The lack of protest from the Admiral had been the most disturbing part of the whole process. It was as if he had simply shut down and didn't care anymore. The depth of Lee's devotion to the Admiral had never been a question in Morton's mind. Crane would do anything for Nelson, right down to giving his life. That Nelson had returned the regard to the same degree had somehow escaped Morton.

He wasn't sure what he had expected, as it wasn't something he had contemplated before. He had known that Nelson considered Lee a friend, maybe his best friend. But this devastation was almost like a parent morning the loss of dearly loved child. Thinking about it now, he really wasn't all that surprised that he hadn't known. The only person on _Seaview_ more reticent in sharing his feelings than Lee Crane was Harriman Nelson. Morton wondered of Lee had known. He had a feeling that part of the agony that he had seen flare in Nelson's eyes was because he had never _told_ Lee how he felt. Like many men he had simply assumed that Lee would just know. And now it was too late.

Morton idly picked up some papers that were on the corner of his desk. Since the Seaview was in the North Pacific, the Navy had asked them to do a little reconnaissance in a proposed target area for some air to sea missiles they wanted to try out. The _Seaview_ would go in and make sure that there were no endangered species in the area, or anything that couldn't withstand the battering of the missiles. They would drop warning buoys around the area to alert shipping, and would then return to Santa Barbara after a brief stop at Inglehurst Naval Station for debriefing. Since life, and the _Seaview_, had to go on, they had decided to accept the assignment, and they were even now heading to the area.

He tossed the papers back down. He really couldn't work up any enthusiasm for the mission, and didn't expect to have much for anything for some time to come. He looked up as there was a knock on his door.

"Come in."

Jamieson came in to the cabin, a bottle and two glasses in his hands. He moved to the extra chair in front of Morton's desk and sat down. He placed the glasses on the desk, and with great precision poured the water glasses full of the dark liquid. He lifted one and handed it to Morton, who had watched everything silently. Jamison then took the other glass for himself, and sat back in the chair. He raised the glass in a toast.

"Lee Crane. Captain of the _Seaview_."

Morton nodded his head, and raised the glass to his lips. He didn't even try to stop the tears that fell.

Chapter 7- Inkusk Island-Three days later.

Lee Crane had risen early on this, the day the Mail boat was due. He had crept from the cabin, to watch the sun rise up from the sea. The goats, always curious and hungry, came to nudge against him, and he patted them fondly. They were more pets than anything, the old man's companions of many years. Lee had not been able to correctly pronounce their names, and had simply taken to referring to them as 'You' and 'You Too'. It had taken two days to get the old man's name right, and he didn't even want to figure out how to spell it, as it seemed to have too many t's and k's and not enough vowels.

They had spent a quiet week together. The old man was used to being alone with his goats, and saw no reason to be chatty just because he had a guest for a week. Crane, a quiet man in his own right, had taken it easily. He spent the time fishing, and with an old crutch that the old man had dug out the first day, exploring the island. He had also found plenty of time for sitting and just watching the sea, a favorite pastime he seldom had time to indulge in. His leg continued to ache, leading him to believe that his bones had not aligned as well as he had hoped, and the broken ends were causing more damage. There was nothing to be done about it though, so he simply lived with it, and kept as much weight as possible off it.

Today he would be leaving. The old man had said that the boat, a regular service that ran to all of the inhabited islands in the chain, would be here at around 0700. Since he had no luggage to pack, he had only to wait. He had said his goodbyes to the old man the previous evening, and there was nothing else to do there. He was wracking his mind to figure out what he could do for his savior, that he would accept that is. He was a simple man, with simple needs.

He did indeed spend the winter here, goats and all. He had been here all his life, and would never leave. He was fiercely independent. Any gift would have to be appropriate and useful. Crane looked around, and his eyes fell on the solution to his dilemma. He smiled to himself. Yes, that was what he would do. He rose to his feet as he saw a boat round the point of the island, headed for the dock. The time had come to rejoin the living, and boy was he ready!

Chapter 8- Inglehurst Naval Station, Alaska. One day later.

Morton and Nelson were sitting in the outer office of Admiral James Hendricks, waiting for the debrief on the survey they had completed. Only someone who knew him would have been able to see the sorrow in Nelson's eyes. He had appeared from his cabin after sleeping nearly twelve hours, only to disappear into his lab to study the samples that had been taken. He had shown little enthusiasm for the process, simply doing what he needed to do. There was none of the curiosity for new things that Morton had become used to. It had taken two days to get the survey done, and now they had only the debrief to get through before they could go back to Santa Barbara.

They sat side by side not speaking. Dressed in their dark blue uniforms Morton felt like they were in mourning, which he guessed they were. He was ready to get this over with and get home to Santa Barbara. The crew was depressed, Nelson was a silent ghost stalking his boat, and Morton felt like crap. He was contemplating getting up to pace when there was a commotion from the office. The base Admiral, a man of around fifty, came out of the door under full steam, trailing a group of aides.

"Dammit Nelson, can't your boat go anywhere without disrupting the normal workings of things? It's either paparazzi flying through restricted airspace to get photos of that monstrosity you call a submarine or weird people at my gate demanding to get in to see you."

Nelson had risen to his feet, and wasn't about to be intimidated, he wasn't in the mood. He met the man toe to toe. "I don't know what you are talking about. My 'monstrosity' as you called it just cleared your area for missile testing, otherwise you would be waiting until hell froze over for another vessel to clear time on its schedule for your little milk run. Now, if you would care to cut out the histrionics and get this debriefing over with I can get off your base and good riddance to it."

The two men stood eye to eye, glaring. Morton had known that the two Admirals didn't get on, but this was showing every sign of ending badly. One of the aides had gone to the secretary's desk and was talking on the phone. He hung up and spoke to his Admiral.

"Sir, the gate reports that the man will not go away. He's claiming to be a Reserve Captain, but can't give any ID. He's wearing raggedy cloths, sandals, has a straggly beard, and walks with a limp. The Guard thinks he's some bum trying to get on base by using the Admiral's name. He must have heard that the _Seaview_ was in port. They would like permission to call the civil authorities and have him taken into custody."

"Yes, yes whatever. Why isn't the provost taking care of it, must I take care of everything?"

"The provost is on leave Sir, and his second was ordered to contact you for any 'big' decisions."

"Having a drunk hauled off is not a 'big' decision. Take care of it."

"Aye sir." The aide went back to the phone and dialed the gate. Hendricks jerked his head toward his office, and started back in with Nelson and Morton following. The aide on the phone started speaking as they were just getting ready to go in the door. "This is Lt Price. The Admiral says to call the local authorities and have this Crane guy hauled off. He is not to be allowed on the base…"

That was as far as he got before Morton jerked the phone out of his hand. "This is Lt Commander Morton. Belay that! Keep that man at the gate! Admiral Nelson and I will be right there!" He dropped the phone on the desk, and started for the door, Nelson was already pushing it open. Hendricks was standing in the door to his office, mouth gaping, looking after him. "We'll be right back," Morton yelled as he ran after Nelson.

There was a jeep in front of the building that Nelson commandeered without the slightest hesitation. Morton barely had time to throw himself into the passenger seat before the Admiral popped the clutch and stepped on the gas. The ride through the streets of the base was a wild one that Morton would not soon forget. He clutched the edge of the windshield, and the edge of the seat, with white-knuckle tightness. In minutes they were approaching the gate. The Admiral threw the wheel over, and the Jeep did a perfect swooping slide up to the gate. The two men bailed out of the Jeep, and ran to the gatehouse, where two guards were staring at them with gaping mouths. Obviously they didn't get much of this around here.

As they came up to the gatehouse, they could see a third guard standing in the middle of the road, toe to toe with a slim, ragged figure dressed in tattered jeans and a equally ragged shirt. A scraggly black beard covered most of his face, and curly black hair blew in the wind, forming a wild halo around his head. As they ran up to the bar that was across the road to prevent cars from entering without stopping, tired amber eyes turned to them, and widened in surprise. The figure started to step forward, only to have a large hand reach out and push him backward. He stumbled awkwardly, and seemingly unable to keep his balance, fell over backward and ended up on his butt on the blacktop. He gave a groan of pain, and grabbed at his left leg.

Nelson and Morton, both of whom had found themselves frozen in place in astonishment, ran around the barrier. Morton grabbed the shore patrolman who was reaching a hand toward the man on the ground, and practically threw him away from the figure. Nelson was on his knees beside him, and reached a hand out to touch his arm. His fingers tentatively clutched at the fabric of the shirt, and then clamped around the arm in a tight grip. He looked up into Lee Crane's amber eyes, and for the first time in weeks, smiled.

"You're a little overdue Captain," he said, his voice hoarse with emotion.

"I had some leave coming. Thought I'd take some time, get in some swimming," Crane said, in the same vein. He looked from Nelson to Morton, who was crouching on his other side. Crane reached out a hand and put it on Morton's knee. "What have you been doing to my boat? You're supposed to be at the Great Barrier Reef."

Morton snorted. "Oh sure, and listen to you complain about missing the diving. No way. Of course looks like you won't be doing any of that soon anyways." He nodded to what they could now see was a splint tied under the jeans on the left leg. Crane was even slimmer than usual, and he looked very tired. Morton instantly started thinking of the best way to get him onto the boat and into Jaime's hands as soon as possible.

"I think we need to get you to Jaime, Lee. Can you stand?" Nelson said, still holding on to Crane's arm. Obviously his mind was running in the same vein as Morton's.

Crane nodded and started to push himself upright. Instantly both Morton and Nelson helped him up. Both held on as he swayed unevenly once he was on his feet.

"You know I could really use a bowl of Cookie's beef soup. The Mail boat didn't have a great menu."

"We'll see what we can do." Nelson said, as they led Crane toward the jeep. The Shore Patrolmen, seeing Nelson's insignia, didn't interfere as they loaded the 'bum' into the jeep, and took off toward the docks.

Morton, riding in the back put a hand on Crane's shoulder. He squeezed gently. "Nice to have you back buddy. I missed you, and if you ever take off like that again I'll kill you!" His words rang with sincerity. Crane tossed him a smile over his shoulder and reached up to pat the hand.

His energy was fading rapidly now that he had reached his 'family'. It had been a grueling trip on the Mail boat from what he found out was Inkusk Island to a small village that boasted a phone and a bush pilot. He had gotten on the phone to ONI, calling collect of course, and had reported what he could over the unsecured line. He knew that the operation had been a success, and he found out that the _Seaview_ was due to be at Inglehurst in the morning. He had persuaded ONI to arrange to pay the pilot his fee, and had made the long hop from the village to the small private airfield about 2 miles from the base.

Since he had no money for a cab he had walked the rest of the way only to find himself blocked at the gate. He had almost sobbed in frustration as he tried to explain to the Shore Patrolmen. They didn't believe him, and threatened to have him hauled off to jail. Then with a squeal of tires the Admiral and Chip had arrived. Crane had never been so happy to see anyone. He could see in that instant that his eyes met first met Nelson's the toll the last two weeks had taken on older man. He regretted that bitterly.

He tried to go to him, assure him that he was ok, but found himself on the ground, unable to stop the groan from breaking loose as his leg, already sore from the walk, sent out streams of agony. In the end Nelson had come to him, with a death grip on his forearm, and a volume of feelings in his blue eyes. Morton was also there, his grip warm and welcome as they helped him to his feet. God it felt good to be home! He looked back from Chip just in time to see his boat, _Seaview_, come into sight. As always she took his breath away with her beauty. How he had missed her too, his great gray lady.

They helped him from the jeep when Nelson had pulled up at the base of the gangplank. He could have gotten out himself, but he understood their need to touch him, affirm he was alive. He needed their touch too, their concern. He had missed it. The three made their way up the gangplank, and Sharkey was there, no doubt alerted by the officer of the deck. The officer, Ensign Galbreth, was practically vibrating from excitement. The Captain was back! No doubt word was spreading throughout the sub.

Sharkey hovered around, asking questions that he mostly answered himself. Crane just soaked it all up, and let Morton answer most of the questions. He had a bit of trouble getting down the ladder into the Control Room, but he persevered, and found himself standing in the one place on earth he knew he belonged. He turned around, letting his eyes pass over the stations, nodding at the grinning crewmen, and just letting himself become accustomed to being here again. As he looked toward the aft hatch, Jamieson came through at flank speed. Crane rolled his eyes, and glared at Sharkey.

"Who passed the word for the doctor?" he mock growled, then smiled as Sharkey started to stutter denials. He turned the smile on Jamieson as he came to a halt in front of him. Crane could almost feel the doctor's eyes sweeping over him, cataloging the medical problems. "Hello Jamie, the bad penny has turned up again."

"As usual a little the worse for wear, too." Jamieson replied smartly. He leaned down for a closer look at the splints. "Nice job. Do it yourself?"

Crane nodded. "Don't think I got the bones set right though. Hurts a bit."

Jamieson snorted, "I'm sure it does. I suppose I don't have to ask if you've stayed off it."

"Had to survive somehow Jamie. Couldn't do that laying down," Crane said plaintively, like a little boy caught doing something vaguely naughty.

"Well you'll be laying down now. I assume that suggesting a stretcher would be silly."

"I can walk Jaime, I got here from the airport…" Crane broke off, realizing too late that mentioning that amount of walking may not be in his best interest.

"Perfect," Jaime said sarcastically, "Then it won't be a problem for you to walk to the Sickbay now." He waved toward the hatch. Nelson and Morton, who had followed Crane down the ladder stood at the side, grinning, both enjoying the familiar give and take between the two combatants.

"But, I'm hungry." It was another plaintive cry.

"I'll have Frank bring you soup. Now move your six," Jaime ordered.

Crane sighed and glanced at the Admiral and Morton. Finding no help there he started limping toward the hatch. Stopping to shake hands with Lt James on the way.

"Nice to have you back Skipper. The crews going be happy to see you."

"Nice to be back. I'm happy to see all of you, too." The last he added loud enough that the duty crew could hear.

Jaime cleared his throat, impatient with the slow progress. Crane sighed again, and shuffled forward again, this time making it out of the hatch, Jaime close behind. Nelson and Morton, not wanting to let Crane out of their sight this soon, followed along. An amazing number of the crew found that their duties required them to be in the corridors between the Control Room and the Sickbay. Crane greeted each one by name, asking a question about something personal to each. It took almost 30 minutes to finally make it to Sickbay, and Jamieson was just short of a boil. Crane moved to the exam table in the middle of the room and sat down. He looked calmly at Jaime with a raised eyebrow.

"If we're done with the 'Welcome Wagon'," Jamieson said, and indicated that Crane should lie down. Morton stepped forward and helped Crane lift his leg up onto the table, receiving a grateful smile in return. Morton retreated to stand beside the Admiral who had slipped into a chair near the door. He was grateful that Jaime hadn't thrown them out yet. Maybe the doctor had realized how difficult it would be to get Morton out, much less Nelson, who had settled in with a finality that spoke volumes.

Once Jaime had dispatched Frank for a cup of soup, he and John, who had appeared at the doorway shortly after the officers, started removing Crane's clothes. In the process he revealed an amazing amount of bruising, now yellowed by time. Morton heard Nelson draw in a breath, and let it out in a gust that included a muttered swear word that Morton had never heard the older man use. Morton was in complete agreement though regarding the deceased man's parentage.

Frank returned with a cup of beef soup, Cookie having defrosted some as soon as word of the Skipper's hunger had reached the Galley. Jaime had adjusted the table so that Crane could sit up enough to drink the hearty soup. He drank it quickly, savoring the feeling of the warm liquid in his stomach. Once Frank had taken the cup away, Jaime cut away the bindings on the splints and removed them from the leg. The leg was swollen and darkly bruised about mid-calf. This time Morton swore under his breath. How had Lee swum at all?

Jamieson and his corpsmen rolled the exam table off to the x-ray room, and rolled it back. Jamieson said it would be a few minutes before the shots were developed, and took a few blood samples, disappearing into his lab. Frank remained hovering about in the room, as if the Skipper might make a break for it, broken leg and all.

Nelson cleared his throat, and having gained Crane's sleepy eyed attention, spoke "Lee we know part of what went on when you were on the ship, can you tell us more? About Ortiz, about how you survived, how you found out where we were?"

Crane nodded, and began telling the story. He paused to answer questions, of which there were many. He left out many of the details that he didn't feel that the others needed to know, then he found himself blushing as Nelson suddenly stopped his recital by saying, "We know about Ortiz, Lee."

"Yeah, well it doesn't matter now," Crane said. Not looking at his friends. He continued on with the story, this time not editing. His eyes became heavier and heavier. He was just telling them about the old man and catching the Mail boat to the village where he had made his calls, when a stray thought made him sit up. Frank was instantly at his side, easing him back down. Crane waved him off impatiently, and looked at Nelson. "I need a canoe, Sir. A wooden one, two man. Something native-made would be good, has to be good quality though. Maybe with good symbols on it and all, he would like that." The brief charge of adrenaline the memory had caused him was fading fast, and taking his awareness with it. He managed to get out one last thought, though he missed the reaction it caused. "Maybe a female goat, too. The boys were kinda lonely." He was fast asleep.

Morton and Nelson looked at each other, with growing smiles, laughter hastily smothered. Frank, who had retreated to one of the bunks, buried his face in one of the pillows, and shook with laughter. Jamieson walked in on this tableau and looked at them all as if they were nuts. He went to the exam table and looked at Crane. Gently he reached for his wrist and took his pulse. He nodded, satisfied. He turned to Nelson and Morton who had managed, just, to get their amusement under control.

"Glad everyone is happy. Are you interested in the results of the x-rays since the patient is currently out for the count?"

Nelson managed a serious nod, though Morton swore he saw his lips twitch.

Jamieson sniffed at the levity and nodded to Crane's left leg. "Both bones in the calf are broken. It was a clean break, and he splinted it well, but since he had to spend too much time on it with out the proper support it hasn't started to heal. I'll have to reset it, and cast it, but it should heal just fine. I was afraid it would need traction, but we can avoid that thankfully."

"Can you do a walking cast? He's going to want out of here quick," Morton said smiling. Crane would not stay in the Sickbay any longer than he thought absolutely necessary, even if Jamieson had a different opinion. Their battles were epic, and often the subject of fond amusement among the crew. Their captain could do no wrong, and his battle against the staunch doctor was a blow for every man who didn't dare say 'no' to the Chief Medical Officer when it came to medical issues.

Jamieson nodded, a disgusted look on his face. "Yes, but he's going to be here for at least two days, on his back, and _nothing_ is changing that. Now, if you gentlemen will excuse me, I have a patient to see to."

Nelson and Morton nodded. Nelson rose to his feet and went to the exam table. He stood for a moment, simply watching Crane breathe, then reached out a hand to smooth a ringlet of dark hair off his forehead. He then patted the slim shoulder lightly, and went out the door. Morton took one last look at his friend, and then followed the Admiral out. The older man was waiting in the corridor, and as Morton came out and closed the door, their eyes met.

"The boys were kinda lonely?" Morton snorted and started laughing. Nelson also was laughing, reaching up to wipe away a tear from his eye. Morton turned a XO glare on a gaping crewman who had been passing by, but dropped it immediately for more laughter when the man hastily disappeared. Nelson reached out and patted his shoulder.

"I think there's a bit more to the story we haven't heard. I'll be looking forward to it. Come to my cabin Chip. I think a bit of a celebration is in order."

"Aye, Sir," Morton said happily; his world was right once again.

Epilog-Inkusk Island-One week later

Kowalski hopped onto the dock, and turned to reach out a hand to Crane, who first handed him a crutch, and then took the helping hand to get out of the skiff. His walking cast made movement awkward, but at least his leg didn't ache any more. He waited for Nelson to get out of the skiff, and then told Riley, who was in the stern of the skiff holding a line to a small canoe to tie off the small vessel to the dock next to the old one that was there, and to unload the small crate that took up part of the space in the canoe.

Crane led Nelson up the path to the cabin, and was not surprised to find the old man sitting in his chair, staring out to sea. 'You' and 'You Too' were in the grass eating, but lifted their heads to look at the visitors. Nelson looked curiously around. Crane had described the place, and Nelson had a hard time believing that anyone, much less an old man, could winter here. Crane came to a stop in front of the old man, and waited until the eyes refocused on him. The old man nodded to him, as if he had just been down to the shore for a few minutes, and not gone for over a week and reappeared with a cast, clean-shaven, and in a khaki uniform.

Crane introduced Nelson, who nodded to the other man, amazed that he really did look ancient. Then he turned and waved to Kowalski who nodded and opened the crate. A nanny goat, with her shaggy gray coat making her look bigger than she was, came out of the crate, and looked around. 'You', or was it 'You Too", let out a bleat as he caught scent of the female, and she instantly bounded up the dock, and into the small grass patch. The three goats disappeared into the brush, bleating wildly. Crane grinned, and turned to the old man. He took some plug tobacco out of his pocket, and offered it the older man with a bowed head. The native Alaskan who had built and painted the canoe had told him that traditionally you brought small gifts to an elder, before giving him anything bigger. If he refused the small item you could forget giving the larger item.

The old man stared at him for a moment, and then cast a glance at Nelson. The old eyes were sharp, and Nelson was sure that in that brief glance the older man hadcataloged everything of importance. The sharp glance swept down to the dock, and then in the direction of the unseen but still bleating goats. He reached out and took the tobacco, nodding to Crane as he looked up. Cane knew that all his gifts were accepted, and he was glad, not only because he had wanted to express his gratitude, but because he was pretty sure that he would have had a heck of a time getting that goat back in the crate if they had been refused. He grinned at the old man, and put out his hand. The canoe builder had said that for the most part hand shaking was not a part of the culture, and many older natives did not do so, but the older man put out his hand and took Crane's. They held for a moment, amber eyes locked with black, and then Crane turned and started back toward the skiff. Nelson started to turn to follow him, when he felt the sharp eyes on him once again.

"Lost two sons to the sea and the ice," the old man said. And Nelson saw that this man knew how he felt about Lee, and the agony he had gone through thinking him dead. "He did good, you taught him well."

Nelson did not try to correct the man's assumption of his being Lee's father. In fact he liked the idea that he had had some part in making Lee the man he was. With a final nod to the old man, who went back to staring out to the sea, he turned to follow the son of his heart back to the _Seaview_. Back home.

The End


End file.
